


In Loco

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: F1slash Secret Santa 2004, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlo gets up to mischief with Jarno.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Loco

**Author's Note:**

> for Chrissy

Jarno lay facedown on the nose of his Renault and wriggled upon the shiny paintwork. It was a shame he couldn't see his number, as he liked to sometimes fantasise that – one day – the number would be a long, proud '1', standing tall. When was the last time that an Italian had taken the WDC? Jarno couldn't remember. His memory stopped with the roll-call of victories taken by other nationalities in recent history; and although he could usually push his memory to recall facts and figures from the golden ages of motor-racing, there was something about reclining on the nose of one's race car in the dark chill of the garage that put an end to accurate recall.

Not that he had anything better to do. Not yet, anyway.

Giancarlo had stopped by his room earlier that evening, smiling conspiratorially. When Jarno let him in, he was surprised when Carlo walked straight past him without even pausing for their habitual caress. He closed the door and stood leaning against it for a moment, watching as his lover sat on the bed and reached for the telephone.

"What are you doing?" he asked, earning himself a reproving look from Carlo.

"Is it not obvious, tesoro? I am calling room service."

Jarno left the safety of the door and came towards the bed, hovering uncertainly. "But we were going out for dinner. You said so. That restaurant downtown where they serve truffles and that dark French wine you love so much…"

Carlo waved a hand irritably at him to indicate silence, and then spoke low into the receiver. It sounded very much as if there was a certain intimacy in the order, and Jarno huffed a sigh and turned away.

There was a click as the receiver was replaced, and then Carlo stood behind Jarno, hugging him awkwardly as he tried to squirm from the embrace. "You think I cancel our date, yes? I do not. I simply move it to another location – one I think you will like very much."

Jarno forgot his sulky mood. "Where?"

Carlo laughed, his chuckle rich and enticing. "You will see. It should appeal to you on many levels…"

And with that, he had left. He'd refused to answer Jarno's questions, just smiled patiently and told him to wait. Jarno had stared at the door, then wandered around the room picking up and replacing objects mindlessly, desperate to kill time. He turned on the television and flicked through a dozen channels before switching it off again, and then he lay on the bed and watched the grey of dusk edge its way across the ceiling. So absorbed in this was he that when the knock came at the door, he rolled off the bed too quickly and stumbled in the semi-darkness. Cursing, he made his way across the floor and opened the door, blinking out into the corridor and half-blinded by the glare of the hall lights.

There was nobody outside. Jarno grumbled and was about to slam the door when he noticed that a small velvet bag was sitting on the carpet. There was no tag, nothing to suggest whom it was for or who had sent it, but he picked it up anyway and brought it inside. He slapped the lights on and dropped the bag onto a table, examining it closely. Definitely velvet – the nap was soft and luxurious against his fingers – and it was a deep burgundy red, the bloodied-jewel colour of the wine that he and Carlo often drank together. It was bound with gold cord, so he untied the knot and the bag fell apart, revealing that it was but a single piece of cloth.

Inside, glittering in the light, were a pair of handcuffs and two strips of black leather. Jarno felt his heart thud against his ribcage for an instant, his mouth going dry as he stared at the items. The handcuffs he could understand; but the leather strips…? He reached out and picked one up, fingering its length and thickness curiously and feeling the smooth surface contrast with the rougher underside. He shivered, taking the strip in both hands and testing its strength. Flavio liked to brag that he had the fittest drivers in the paddock, but even when he applied all his strength, Jarno could not snap the leather.

Then he noticed the square of paper, folded over and in so many times that it resembled a party favour from a Christmas cracker. He put down the strip of leather reluctantly; suddenly wary of what might be written on the paper. He opened it, smoothed it out, and then propped it against the velvet.

 _If you are willing to play a little game I have devised for our mutual enjoyment and pleasure, then take these items and come to your garage at the track. Nobody will stop you. When you are ready, assume the position that suits you best and then wait for me to attend you._

Jarno read the note three times to be certain of what it said. Then, despite the tremor that wobbled his knees as he stood, he began to prepare himself.

Now here he was, waiting in the darkened garage. It had been ridiculously easy to get into the paddock, the security guards seemingly turning a blind eye as he sneaked along. The mechanics and drivers who preferred the privacy of their motorhomes rather than the bland anonymity of a hotel were all indoors, with only faint lights glowing beneath door-sills or at windows to suggest that there was any human life within the paddock at all.

He had crept into the garage, too cautious to activate the overhead lights. Within seconds he'd wished he'd thought to bring a torch as he tripped over something lying on the ground, and he froze into stillness as the something clattered and clanged across the concrete. Jarno was certain he was about to be discovered; but when nobody came to investigate, he moved forwards. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, which was not total: around the counters set at the back and along one side of the garage were narrow strip-lights that gave off a feeble glow. It was enough for him to be able to move more confidently, stepping over pieces of fibreglass body-parts.

The note was folded in his pocket, and Jarno referred to it once more as he stood beside his car. _Assume the position that suits you best_. He wondered what that meant, puzzling over it for long moments until he decided that the most comfortable – and warmest – position would be across the nose-cone of his car. Anywhere else would involve kneeling or lying on the concrete, or on the hard plastic-covered counters. Feeling more than slightly self-conscious even though there was nobody to see what he was doing, Jarno straddled the nose and placed his feet flat on the ground, his heels grazing the angled planes of the front wings.

As he put his weight upon the nose-cone, he was aware of how much pressure was exerted through the fibreglass. Even with all the metal struts that supported the fragile frame, he doubted that it would have held him if it hadn't been securely fastened to the main body of the car. Somebody had obviously instructed the mechanics to bolt the vehicle together; they had also had the gall to shear off the radio spike from the centre of the nose… as if they'd known that he would choose to spread himself there.

Jarno bit back a smile. He didn't know of a single driver who, if given the same instructions as him, would not choose to lie upon his car. There was something inherently sexy in those sleek lines, the cold perfection of the machinery beneath the painted skin, the knowledge that only he could control the beast within.

He turned his attention to the items inside the velvet cloth. The handcuffs were obvious enough – he leaned over the cockpit and looked for something to thread the links through. His smile deepened when he saw that his wheel was already in place, providing the perfect restraint. Before he snapped on the cuffs, he pondered over the leather strips. It would be difficult, but he thought he could manage to lash his ankles to the front wings. It would mean staying absolutely still, or he would damage the paintwork and more importantly, it would ruin the set-up and meddle with the amount of downforce the car gave.

Jarno tried tying his left leg to the wing, but the grip was poor over the fabric of his trousers and the leather unravelled itself almost as soon as he straightened up. He realised that he'd have to remove his trousers, and only then did he feel nervous again. Chewing his bottom lip, Jarno stood undecided for a moment and then swung himself off the nose-cone. Hurriedly, before he could change his mind, he unbuttoned his flies and stripped off his trousers, folding them neatly and placing them on the counter. Glancing around as if there were hundreds of eyes in the darkness, he tugged at his shirt-tails until the cloth covered his buttocks. The thin cotton of his boxers seemed woefully inadequate protection all of a sudden.

He resumed his position, finding that the leather strips tied much more easily without the barrier of corduroy. The leather was warm and supple, twining about his legs like an affectionate cat, and so he pulled hard on the knot of his right leg, enjoying the pinch against his skin. Pleased with the result, he lay forwards again and wriggled, pausing to tug at his shirt as it rode up over his back. He put his chin on the nose-cone and looked at the velvet, wondering if it was part of the equipment. Deciding that it was, he rolled it into a long strip and tied it over his eyes, blindfolding himself.

Plunged into darkness, it took him some minutes to adjust. Carefully, he stretched out one hand and felt around, walking his fingers over the join between the nose and the body of the car, into the cockpit. He touched the chinking metal of the cuffs and managed to slide his hand inside, locking the cuff into position with his free hand. Then he waited, unable to cuff his other hand. Even though he had one limb free, the extent of his restraint was remarkable. He could scarce move his legs for fear of damaging his car; the heavy smother of velvet across his eyes robbed him of sight; and the position itself was not as comfortable as he'd first expected. It pulled at the muscles of his shoulders and back, setting up an ache that demanded to be comforted; and it made him all too aware of how exposed he was.

Jarno waited. At first the fibreglass was cool beneath his forehead, but soon it was warm with the heat of his breathing. He tried to move, forcing himself onto tip-toe to ease the strained muscles, but he stopped as soon as he heard a faint creak from the front wings. He relaxed as best he could, waiting, waiting…

The odour of oil and fuel was pervasive, drugging him to somnolence. Under his lips, the skin of the car perspired. He inhaled it, going deeper each time, his vision dark red and full of sinking warmth. So caught by the feeling, he almost missed the click of the garage door opening; but then he knew he was not alone. Jarno raised his head, twisting in the direction of the sound of footsteps padding towards him. His free hand strayed towards the blindfold, but before he had a chance to remove it, his head was forced back down onto the nose-cone. Fingers cradled and gripped his skull, and this time when Jarno's lips pressed against the car's skin, the moisture was cold and sour.

He remained still, extending his awareness beyond the blindfold to identify his partner. He was certain it was Carlo, but there was no trace of cologne for him to be absolutely sure, and he was in the wrong position to be able to bury his face against the curve of Carlo's neck to smell his body scent. He would have to assume that his partner was Carlo, and the tiny flicker of uncertainty that he might be wrong was a spur of aphrodisiac.

Carlo ran his hands through Jarno's hair, mussing the blond streaky waves, until he touched the nape of his neck and laid his palms against the tight shoulder muscles. The heat of his hands was pleasant, and Jarno sighed to encourage further touches. The hands travelled down his back, the fingers exerting the slightest pressure at sensitive points, then they joined together over the tail of his spine. Jarno took a breath as the hem of his shirt was lifted up over the small of his back, and then the hands resumed their journey. Down over his arse, tickling at the crease where the buttocks joined the thighs, and then down again, the fingers moving in lazy sweeps over Jarno's thighs, tracing slow circles in the hollow of the back of his knees, then moving in sliding caress over his calves to his bound ankles.

Jarno pressed himself against the nose-cone. Relying on touch alone was even more arousing than he'd imagined, and his cock stood stiff, wedged in an uncomfortable position. Carlo seemed oblivious, now stroking upwards and inwards until his fingers brushed through the thickening hairs of Jarno's upper thighs. Flirting with the hem of his boxers, Carlo's fingers wormed their way beneath the fabric, teasing as they worked higher.

Jarno whined faintly, the first sound he'd made all night. Immediate cessation of the caresses told him that he should make no noise at all – another restriction, and one that he knew would be most difficult for him. His reward for his sudden silence was swift, the hands returning to his body to slide up to the waistband of his boxers. Jarno held his breath as the hands snaked around to his hips, and then his boxers were being tugged from him to tangle halfway down his thighs. He could imagine how he looked: bent over the car with his arse in the air, buttocks spread – and he suppressed a shiver of dirty pleasure.

The fingers tapped across his naked buttocks, soft as falling rain, and then more insistently. Carlo spread his hands wide, gripping each buttock hard, his thumbs moving slowly in a circular motion, each time opening the dark cleft wider until he could see Jarno's arsehole. Jarno fought the desire to whimper and thrust himself back from the nose-cone in blatant offering. Carlo leaned over, his hair brushing the tail of Jarno's spine, and the brief touch was electrifying. Jarno writhed, knowing what was coming next; although eager for it, he wasn't certain that he could remain silent for long.

Instinctively he tensed when he felt Carlo's breath against his buttocks, the skin tightening until goosebumps broke out on his thighs. He forgot to breathe as Carlo lowered his face closer, and then bit his lip when he felt the first lazy touch of Carlo's tongue on the inside of his buttocks. Leisurely, Carlo probed the length of his cleft, leaving a wet trail that heightened anticipation. Satisfied with tasting him, Carlo slid his tongue lower, dabbing at the entrance to his anus.

Jarno gasped, rising up from the nose-cone until his bonds restrained him. Carlo grasped his buttocks harder, parting them roughly so he could lick at the tender flesh. His tongue circled slowly, rimming Jarno with exquisite delicacy. Beneath his hands, Jarno writhed desperately, half wishing he could escape the trembling torture and half wishing for more. He jerked his hips frantically, forcing himself back onto the tongue that now, oh so patiently, began to penetrate him. Jarno strangled a cry in his throat. His cock ached wickedly, demanding attention, and he had to content himself with rubbing against the nose-cone. Pre-cum slithered the paintwork, making his movements easier, smoother. His cock-head found the edge of a sticker – his number, Jarno realised dazedly – and he pushed down against it eagerly, fucking his car as Carlo fucked his arse with his tongue.

But it would not be enough, and they both knew it. Carlo suddenly straightened up and pressed his body against Jarno's back, and Jarno heard the burr of a zip being undone. Hot, erect flesh sprang free to nestle in the cleft of his buttocks, and Jarno could feel the hungry drool of Carlo's pre-cum sliding to mix with his saliva. He gasped, biting down on his lip as Carlo guided himself home, sinking deep between Jarno's upthrust buttocks.

The rhythm was slow to begin, and then blind lust took control. Jarno felt immersed in this sweaty, grunting beast that stank of oil and race-fuel and sex, no longer certain of where one part began and the other ended. He had no eyes, but he did not need to see; he could make no sound, but had no words to cry aloud. All there was, was sensation in darkness, freedom in chains. He came silently, his mouth open and pressed to the skin of the car, french-kissing the paintwork. Exhausted, he barely registered Carlo's orgasm, and only became aware of the laboured breathing behind him after some time had passed.

"Tesoro," Carlo whispered, dropping a kiss to the back of his neck before he moved away.

Jarno groaned, no longer bound to silence as soon as he heard the garage door close. He reached up and pulled off the blindfold, then slowly and with care, he untied his ankles from the front wings. The handcuffs he would have to leave on, fastened around one wrist, but he managed to take off the steering-wheel and thus free himself almost completely. In the silence of the garage, he dressed; then he leaned over the front of his car and examined the smears of semen covering the paintwork. He wrinkled his nose at the mess, then picked up the velvet cloth and wiped down the nose-cone.

Finally satisfied that nobody would ever be able to guess what had just taken place there, Jarno folded the velvet and slipped it into his pocket. He would keep it, and the handcuffs, as a souvenir of this night.

And who knows? he thought, perhaps I might use them again soon…


End file.
